


Cold Hands, Warm Hands

by shihadchick



Series: Slayerverse [3]
Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet morning in for Spencer and Bob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Hands, Warm Hands

**Author's Note:**

> For elucreh and crowgirl. <3

Spencer snuggles closer under the blanket, and stealthily tucks his hands under Bob's hip. It's cool enough out that he's feeling his bruises more than usual, and Bob is _warm_.

"Don't think I don't notice when you do that," Bob grumbles, not even bothering to open an eye to glare. "Your hands are _cold_. I could get a kidney infection."

Spencer snorts. "Sure," he says, "because that's not an old wives' tale or anything."

"Shouldn't you have perfect Slayer circulation and thus not have any problems with cold hands?" Bob asks, rolling onto his back, eyes still closed, and not incidently presenting Spencer with a perfect opportunity to goose him.

Spencer decides warm hands are in fact the better part of valor, and lets Bob's better parts lie. Undisturbed, so to speak.

"Well, maybe that goes with the girl genes?" Spencer suggests. He would shrug, but. Hands. In new places. Okay, in places they've spent quite a lot of time, but they're not exactly mobile right now, anyhow. He ducks his face down to rub against Bob's shoulder, the cotton t-shirt soft and body-temperature. Spencer's nose is cold too, actually.

"Bob," Spencer says, hooking his knee over Bob's thigh to hold him in place when it looks like he might be getting up to move, "Bob, is it possible that the heat is out?"

"Uh," Bob says, and twists to look at his window. The actinic glare is distinctly lacking. "Yeah," he says slowly, drawing out the vowels, "I think it looks quite a lot like the heat is out. Also the power, lights and, and this is just guessing, pretty much everything worth doing."

"Worth doing, huh?" Spencer says, and decides his hands are warm enough to move, now.

Bob yelps. It's totally dignified. "Worth getting out of bed for," Bob corrects.

Spencer frowns. He's not sure if he'll accept that one or if Bob will have to try harder.

Bob decides - and this is one of the reasons Spencer kind of, maybe, a little bit loves him, or at least he thinks he might, when he thinks about it, which he is _not_ right now - to try and get something else a bit harder.

"Well, if you're _up_ ," he says, wriggling in a fashion guaranteed to make his boxers slide down where Spencer's hands are on his ass. His knuckles drag over the front of Spencer's boxers in a brief check-in, a hi-hello-how-are-ya that Spencer's dick is conditioned enough to take as a reason to stand up and say hello right back.

"I have no idea what time it is," Spencer says, breathless. He thinks it's just after dawn - it's light outside, but it might just be cloudy - because he doesn't feel like they've been asleep long. They'd gotten in late, like most days, and he hadn't even showered off the sweat and mud, just eyeballed the sheets to establish he wasn't going to make them that much worse.

(Bob was behind on his laundry. Bob was _always_ behind on his laundry. Spencer thought it might be because Bob was kind of a ridiculous perfectionist and so if he was going to do laundry, he was going to do it right, and doing it right took more time than Bob usually had. Spencer was also pretty sure that if Bob had been around eighty years ago he'd have been one of those guys with a starched collar. It would have been pretty hot, actually. Spencer totally has refined taste. Either that or he's imprinted on something. Either way, it's probably Ryan's fault.)

"You got somewhere to be?" Bob asked, faux-casual.

"Nope," Spencer said, even more breathless, because Bob's fingers are spider-crawling down his belly and under the waistband of his underwear now, and this will never, ever get less awesome. He's got permission for sleepovers now - really, he's 18, how were his parents going to stop him? - and he doesn't have classes until 10 no matter what, and starting the day off with sloppy sex with his boyfriend sounds like a genius plan. It's the first week back, he doesn't even have homework yet.

"Mmm, so what do you feel like?" Bob asks, stroking lightly up along the shaft of Spencer's dick, feather-weight pressure. Bob is a fucking tease; for a straight-forward and no-bullshit type of dude, he's way too invested in making Spencer practically beg for it, making him decide what he wants.

"Bob," Spencer complains, and tries to arch his back suggestively. More pressure would be nice, or if Bob wanted to blow him- although, okay, the chill is still seeping through, so probably if Bob gets under the covers there'll be some kind of totally unwelcome draught and Spencer's balls will crawl back up into his body to hibernate and then no one will be happy.

...god, why is Spencer focusing on how this could go horribly wrong when he has Bob _giving him a handjob_.

"I am a crazy person," he says out loud, and Bob just says, "Uh-huh, it goes with the territory," and leans in for a kiss.

His breath isn't all that fresh either, but Spencer finds he doesn't really care all that much.


End file.
